Ominous, That
by Delgodess
Summary: Harry is dead and the world has moved on. But then, so has she. A different world, a different life. And no need to be the "Hero". -As if Death would ever make it so easy.- FemHarry
1. Something Wicked

If there's one thing Harry remembers about her past life, it's that it kinda sucked. Uncles, crazies and evil dark lords all out for her blood, mysterious mysteries popping out of the wood work (all but _demanding_ to be solved) and, worse, _school_. Her life had been a dangerous adventure, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders.

She'd been almost relieved when it ended, surprised when it began again, and pleased to find she'd been birthed into a completely normal, non-magical world.

In that moment, she vowed to avoid adventure, forsake intrigue, live a perfectly safe ( _boring_ ), peaceful ( _mundane_ ) life, devoid of anything remotely dangerous ( _interesting_ ).

You can imagine, then, her shock (and displeasure), at finding her adventure-free life so rudely interrupted by a slytherin-eyed boy intent on knocking her (and her fencing equipment) down in the middle of one of To-Oh University's many hallways.

(Though, to be honest, his smiling shadow had much more to do with her reaction than anything else.)

It was a hit and run, a gut reaction instilled by years of wizard-style guerrilla warfare and her innate sense that _something wicked this way comes_.

Her fist lashed out before her bag had even hit the ground, the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh- stark. The sound lingered in her ears long after she'd fled, ringing like the tolling of a bell.

Evil, and questions about its source, could damn well _stay away_.


	2. Black Cat

**No Beta**

* * *

The next day found her at the sports departments' rental desk, checking out equipment that, while not exactly poor quality, wasn't what she'd grown used to.

As a result, her performance was less than stellar, the instructors frown following her all the way into her next class. And while Ethics was no walk in the park, it was simple in the way all mind-numbingly boring things are simple. The scratching of pencils and click of laptop keys accompanying the droning monotone of the professors voice (uncannily like a certain ghost professor she used to know) was music to her ears, lulling her into a state of half awareness.

Given her complacency, was it any wonder trouble decided to perch on the chair next to her?

The man (because to mistake him for a boy, all naïveté and sweetness, would be to invite disaster) was tall, lengthy even, if he ever felt inclined to unfurl from the hunched ball he'd somehow folded himself into. Baggy jeans, oversized sweater; glaringly white. Ratty, chopped black hair like a distant call out to Remus. That he was barefoot hardly registered, not with that inquisitive gaze lingering on her form.

Harry took it all in at a glance, refusing to make eye contact with the strange creature and designed, instead, to focus on completing tonight's homework.

And if her body was angled slightly towards him, slumped in a sort of languid readiness only learned through conflict, and her fingers, curled loosely over her pen, tingled with the need to pull out a long-lost wand, or, better yet, wrap around an equally familiar leather hilt- well, it couldn't be helped.

He made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Harry resisted the urge to shiver, casually reaching up to tighten her frizzy ponytail, the orange strands disobediently tufting up, despite, or perhaps because of, her recent post-workout shower.

A thoughtful hum had her turning towards him, slim eyebrow raised, arms falling to her desk.

He blinked slowly, mouth opening in a musing droll, low enough to go unheard by the professor.

"Your answer, " He said, nodding to Harry's half-finished scrawl, "is wrong."

Both brows raised, Harry glanced down at the open textbook on her desk, tracing over the words she'd written on the notebook beside it.

Her head cocked and the corner of her mouth twitched as she looked up.

"Isn't that for me to decide?"

He blinked again, slowly, and Harry swore she could count his eyelashes in the time he took to do so.

Then he bowed, a neat, bird-like movement of the head.

"Ryuga Hideki."

Harry returns the gesture, regretting every movement as she does so.

"Potter Harry."

"A foreigner?" Ryuga questions, dark eyes bright and intense. "Your Japanese is very good."

"No," Harry shakes her head, "I'm a half-blood." She can't help the tinge of amusement that enters her voice; a secret joke. "I've got my dads' coloring."

He hums again and they turn back to their respective activities. That is, her halfhearted listening of the lecture and his impolite staring.

Propriety dictates that she should follow up with a question of her own, except, she doesn't want to. Like, _really_ doesn't want to.

He _reeks_ of intrigue and like bloody _hell_ is she going to open that can of worms.

So she stays quiet and stiff beside him for the next hour and a half, scribbling doodles around her notes when her homework and the lackluster atmosphere becomes too much.

She doesn't acknowledge him when the class finishes and she stands from her seat, gathering up her things with quick efficiency.

That she can feel his curious gaze on her all the way to the door and through the hall is unnerving, the dull thrum of foreboding echoing like a promise in her head.

It reminds her of a saying:

 _"Curiosity killed the cat_."

Harry just wishes this cat wasn't so curious.


	3. Next Great Adventure

Disaster strikes on her way back into the gym.

A familiar bag catches her eye as she steps through the outer doors and into the spacious hallway, its worn strap slung over the broad shoulder of a brown haired boy standing at the help desk.

He's talking to the assistant as he pulls the belt over his head, the guy behind the counter nodding when he places it down.

For a moment, Harry hesitates.

It's her things. And she wants them back. _Now_.

But this is the person that had her reacting on instinct alone, a sharp upper cut from the left. Her knuckles still ache from the force she'd put into the hit, the blow meant to damage, to hurt, to _incapacitate_.

It should have knocked him unconscious.

That he'd been able to shift away just enough for it to be glancing, rather than direct -disorienting and painful but no where near as damaging as it could have been- it said something about him.

It said a great many things actually.

But that doesn't address the more pressing issue:

 _Where is his shadow?_

Her sweep of the area is interrupted when the assistant catches her standing in the doorway, waving her over with a holler of her name.

"Harry-san! Come here!"

She cringes inwardly as she quickly makes her way over, reminded of the days people used to scream her name. That fame thing? Yeah. _So_ not missing it.

"Hey. What's up?" She asks, popping the 'p' as she shoves her hands deep into her pockets.

She sees the boys' head turn towards her from the corner of her eye, his blondish fringe sliding over his cheeks.

"This guy," The assistant, Hedji- Hibiki- _what's-his-name_ , gestures. "found a bag. Says it's yours. You lose something?"

"Yeah. Let me see." Harry rifles through it, zipping and unzipping pockets, searching crevices. There's nothing missing and nothing 'extra'. Its all there.

Harry smiles, bowing. "Thanks." And flips the strap over her shoulder, hands unerringly finding their way back into her pockets. But she can't stall any longer, so she turns to the boy.

If her bow is a tad shallow, it can be attributed to the heavy case on her back.

"Thank you." She says, rising. Her eyes widen a bit when she finally looks at him, taken aback.

He is handsome, in a polished, clean-cut kind of way. All sharp lines and creased folds. There's a confidence in how he holds himself, a charisma she can't name. He smiles, opening his mouth to reply, and Harry finds herself fighting the urge to blush and stammer like a school girl.

Then she meets his eyes and it's like being dumped in ice.

His voice is smooth, charming with just a hint of laughter as he waves her off, but his gaze pierces her with an intensity she hasn't felt in a lifetime.

Her own smile is frozen on her features, nails digging into her palms beneath the fabric of her grubby grey sweatpants.

She's looking at him now, _really_ looking, trying to see the cracks that hide beneath his beauty.

Then she sees it.

The bruise on his jaw, fat and swollen, all black with pooling blood.

Harry takes the leap.

She juts her chin. "That looks bad." Then shrugs. "Sorry 'bout that."

His eyes flash red and she wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. She doesn't have _time_ for this. She did her due, played the part. She's done. She _died_.

It's _not her job_ to deal with the monster hiding behind the mask of a boy.

And yet...

 _"To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure_."

Harry shakes off her unease, ignoring the memory of the old coots words and politely makes her escape.

And if a shadow drifts down from overhead?

She doesn't see it.


	4. TGWL

Her home is comfortably middle class with a sturdy iron gate and a pleasant garden patio. The outside stucco is a nice beige, the shingles blue-black and the front door a happy red.

After removing your shoes in the foyer, the space opens up to an airy living room, adjacent to an equally uncluttered, well-lit kitchen. Through a doorway to the right of said kitchen is a small room with a washer and dryer that connects to the one car garage, which makes up the right bottom half of the house.

Directly across from the front door is a stair case, which leads to three bedrooms, the master suite and a bathroom.

Harry's room is the last door on the right. It is bright with sunlight and in the spring she has a clear view of the sakura trees that bloom in her neighbors yard. She likes the open, clean air that waifs in from the window above her desk, the plush western-style bed next to her haphazardly filled bookcase, and her full closet.

(She hides there, on the _really_ bad days; curling into a shivering ball under a mountain of clothes, trying to forget.)

Her father, an English Civil Engineer by the name of Charles "Charlie" Potter, fell in love with Inoue Aimi, the quick witted foreign exchange student from Japan. They dated until she graduated with honors, after which she left, returning home. And Charlie, love sick fool that he was, followed her, courted her, and eventually convinced her to marry him.

Twenty years later finds them still hopelessly in love (the sorry sods), with three children ranging from mid-teens to early twenties, the middle of which is one Harry Potter.

Now eighteen, Harry stands at a respectable 1.7 meters (5'7"), towering over most girls her age, but given her ancestry, it's to be expected. Fair skinned, with equally fair features, Harry stands out in a society of short, dark haired people.

Her eyes, a vivid emerald green, have always shone with a keen light (soul weary, her mother calls them, the sign of a restless spirit).

She practices fencing, a touch based sport involving formal combat with a choice of one of three rapiers, of which, she uses the sabre. She started at a young age, her determination to master the foreign sport spawned by a theatrical performance she attended with her mother and siblings when she was five.

(But really, it reminded her of a Duel, the swish and pull of her sabre, the flick of her wrist and bend of her arm; it was almost like holding her wand again.)

She got into To Oh University through a rare, almost defunct Athletic Scholarship, catering to specialized European sports. She was expected (and required) to do well in her competitions, and represent with pride. A small fencing class is now offered to students because of her petition to the school, the numbers of which have swelled to a nice healthy dozen, which will hopefully triple in the next semester. Her instructor is a hard, no-nonsense Italian who demands much and expects more (as if she would have it any other way).

She is majoring in Human Biology, after her mother, and confesses a certain fascination with the scientific process (what with it being science-based rather than magical theory).

Harry's life is full and vibrant, busy and complex. Which is one of the many reasons why she _despises_ complications.

So when she wakes from a dead sleep in the middle of the night, the air in her room cold enough to see wisps of white breath streaming from her mouth and a dark looming shadow hanging over her prone form; is it really any wonder she reacted with extreme prejudice?

The spell left her lips before she remembered her significant lack of magic, right hand reaching for her sabre even as she flung her blanket away and rolled from the bed.

"Expecto patronum!" Her voice snapped like a whip in the still silence, the sound alone enough to send one reeling. That it was accompanied by a bright burst of white light shocked Harry to a stand still, the tangy, warm thrum of magic pounding through her blood like a heartbeat, rushing in her ears from the top of her head, to the soles of her feet, then back to the tips of her fingers.

The serge of power flung her red hair up like a tempest, eyes glowing green from the influx of magic. It spread outward with a pulse of unseen vibrations, her stag patronus all the brighter for it.

The dark Thing hurled into her bookcase with a pained and slightly surprised yelp _,_ sliding into an undignified, shadowy heap along the far wall. Harry's patronus, unbelievably large in such a small space, pawed at the ground before lifting its antlered head in a protective rear.

Harry, still high from the sudden reappearance of her magic, had the inexplicable urge to cry.

And this is how she found herself confronting the Thing in her bedroom: fiery hair aloft, tears shining in the white ethereal glow, sabre in hand.

* * *

The next morning, there is a parcel on her desk, wrapped in black velvet and tied with red silk.

When Harry finally dregs up her old Gryffindor courage to slowly peel the fabric back, she is met with a thin, square jewelry case of the blackest of leathers.

Inside sits an unassuming set of earrings; a set of three. Two jeweled studs, one of black stone, the other of shimmering silver. Then last, a dangling shard of wood, _elder wood_ , shaped to the likeness of something Harry once broke and threw into a chasm.

The Girl Who Lived shivers at an unseen wind, staring at the symbols etched upon each.

She swallows.

And then gently closes the case.

Tomorrow, she will get her ears properly pierced.


	5. Her Luck

**No Beta**

* * *

There is something that needs to be understood about Harry Potter.

It's not something she brags about, or even likes to admit. It's not even all that hard to guess; in fact, multiple people have commented on it, both in her past life and in the current one. It's simple, really.

Harry Potter is lucky.

But if luck were a coin and if that coin were flipped, _repeatedly_ , over and over, never landing too long on any one side: well. That would be Harry's luck.

The Good. And the Bad.

It explains why trouble _always_ finds her, why things _always_ go from bad to worse, and why she can, _without fail_ , get out of it alive (never-mind possible maiming).

Harry Potter _does not like_ being lucky.

Perhaps that is why denial clings so stubbornly, especially within the next few weeks.

Harry wishes the Hallows away, but no matter what she does to get rid of them, they always return, like sad, hopeful puppies to an abusive master.

The first time she decides to just take them off and shove them in the deepest, darkest corner of her closet, _every_ fire hydrant on her bus route to school _explodes_ in a shower of highly pressurized water. Traffic lights flicker on and off, glass shatters, stray cats start floating into the atmosphere; it's a nightmare.

She thinks she's going crazy when she starts hearing hissing whispers, only to discover her fifteen year old brother, James, has a _python_ (of all things) sequestered away in his room; to use in his next prank, no doubt, the _brat_.

It takes awhile to figure out that it's not the _Hallows_ causing all the ruckus; it's _her_.

Her magic is out of control.

Like in those lonely years before Hogwarts, things just...happen.

And in a world devoid of magic, without wards or rules or boundaries, there is nothing stoping it.

Except her.

And the Hallows.

It takes her three weeks to figure out that each Hallow is, essentially, doing what they are _meant_ to do: enhance the user. Just in a capacity completely different to what she's used to.

The stone syphons her magic away, storing it for later use. The wand directs it, like a conduit, and the silver stud, the cloak...it... _hides_ her, for lack of a better word.

But the thing that frustrates her the most, besides having to learn how to use magic from the ground up, with no wand and no verbal spells (a condition she placed on herself after a fiasco involving bra-stealing pigeons; the flying rodents somehow flooding the girls locker room and a long, futile moment of panicked 'accos!' only written off because everybody _else_ was panicking too), is that Harry doesn't understand _The Point_.

 _There is_ no purpose _in one_ Harry Potter _possessing the Deathly Hallows._

And that makes her want to tear her hair out, because, obviously, there _is_ a purpose, somewhere out there, like a neon sign floating in front of her face.

But just like in her fifth year at Hogwarts, she can't _see_ it.

She hasn't heard from or seen any shadowy _Things_ since That Night and it's driving her up the wall. (It could be midterms, too, but she'd like to think that she is not, in fact, a chronic stress case.)

Why doesn't this stuff come with instructions?

 _Enter building, cross hall, turn left. Open door. Defeat EVIL. Exit stage right and sign at bottom to receive your Hero awards points!_

GAH!

Harrys brow furrows as she glares down at her hastily scribbled notes, the Latin short-hand Hermione'd forced her to learn back in third year looking more and more like the ravings of a demented lunatic.

The former witch had an inkling what this may be all about, but she couldn't see what this had to do wit-

-something snaps behind her, the crunch of old foliage and brittle wood.

Harry tenses, goosebumps rising on her skin in a full-body wave. Her high ponytail slaps against her face as her head whips around, startled gaze snapping to the dark haired man crouched behind her, attention fixated over her shoulder, unblinking eyes staring at her notebook. It closes in a quick, practiced movement as Harry rises from the raised planter bench she'd settled on, clutching the book tightly to her chest.

Ryuga Hideki, she remembers vaguely, and if the rumors are true, honor student tied for first place in the entrance exam with one Yagami Light.

(She thinks of a boy with light brown hair and eyes that flash red, the barest hint of madness.)

She shivers, but it's autumn, so she brushes it off just as easily as her shaking fingers brush down the fabric of her favorite scarlet coat. She watches as the unnerving man finally blinks, hand moving down from his mouth where he'd been biting his thumb and head tilting as he meets her gaze.

Harry resists the urge to twitch.

"Can I help you...?" She questions, thoroughly creeped out.

"You're a linguist?" He deflects, shuffling forward to crouch completely on the cement planter.

He's barefoot again, what looks to be a new pair of sneakers hanging loosely in the fingers of one hand. It's freezing outside. Harry has trouble drawing her attention away from the distracting sight.

"Not especially." The redhead mutters, glancing around the school courtyard only to find it empty, the cold herald of winter rattling through the brittle, leafless trees lining the area. They seem to quiver in their raised pedestals, and Harry is starkly reminded of thin, skeletal hands.

Ryuga tisks, still staring, and Harrys gaze hardens after a moment.

"That's rude." She jerks her chin up at him, "What you're doing right now. It's rude."

Her grip tightens on her book, body shifting in annoyance.

"So unless you've got something that you really have to say to me-"

"The Ethics project." He interrupts.

Harry is thrown. "What?"

The man blinks again, slowly. "What do you think of it?"

An exasperated sigh leaves her before she can stop it, shoulders relaxing minutely. "Which one?" She asks lightly, moving forward to grab her bag from off the planter, then stuffing her notebook in its cluttered depths and zipping it as she hastily as she can without seeming _too_ hasty. A casual step to the side places her at a more comfortable distance as she waves a hand vaguely. "There's a bunch of cases we're following right now..."

His thumb is at his mouth again, long toes curling over the edge of the freezing cement. Weirdo. "The Kira Case."

Harry starts, looking up only to drown in an intense blackness. She hadn't seen pupils get that wide since Lupin went all furry in third year. She swallows and his eyes flicker.

"What do you think of it?"

Harry hums, tugging absently at her ponytail even as she shifts impatiently on her feet. Her lips purse. "Honestly? I don't really care."

Ryuga's head tilts like a dog. Or a bird. A very, creepy, _unsettled_ bird.

She forces nonchalance, rolling her eyes, and sliding her right hand up her backpack strap to grip it more securely. She pauses for a moment, unsure, but though his question _seems_ innocent... Ah, hell. A Slytherin would never fall for such an obvious dig, but Harry was feeling generous, if only to get him to _go away_. Besides, Slytherin she was not. Her head cocks indulgently, a mirror to his. "But...if I'd had to say something about it..." She shrugs.

"Someone's trying to play at being God."

He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, so she continues, carefully trying to find the words.

"But that's... _not_ the way it works. _Justice_ -law and order-were created to _have_ Justice. To be fair to all parties involved. Like what we talked about in class today."

Green eyes lose their focus, and unbeknownst to Harry, her voice changes, becoming clipped; hard.

"When someone takes that power into their own hands," slim, unpainted fingers cup, "the power to dish out Justice, or in Kiras' case, _Death_ , they're eliminating the choice that others have. Eliminating free will." The hand drops, gaze turning focused, clear and direct. Harry shakes her head firmly. "That's not Justice, that's Tyranny." She's begun to pace, her odd classmate watching like the strange specimen he is. She bites her lip, continuing, but more quickly now.

"So when Kira says that he's fulfilling Justice, that he _is_ Justice, he's lying. To him self," her left hand moves in, "to all of us," then out in an arc. She stills.

"Kira is a liar." She declares flatly.

Ryuga's eyebrows have raised above his scruffy hairline and Harry rushes to finish, suddenly feeling sheepish. Though the topic of their discussion _was_ a highly publicized serial killer, the Kira Case was still a sensitive topic. A fearful one, too. And wasn't that an unfortunate familiarity? Still, it was just a class project. Time to sheath her Griffindor claws.

The red head stifles a sigh. "What this is _really_ about is _power_. And, quite frankly, no one person should have that kind of power." She concludes, tugging once more at her ponytail.

"Hn".

If she's a bit shocked at his lack of reaction, she doesn't show it. Instead, Harry reaches into her back pocket, flips open her phone and checks the time.

Damn her luck!

"Is that all you need?" She snaps rudely, suddenly unwilling to tolerate his presence.

The man doesn't even bother to look up from the wrapped candy he's pulled from nowhere, a musing grunt signifying his sudden disinterest.

Harry rolls her eyes yet again. What a weirdo.

She leaves in a flurry of red, hair whipping behind her as she sprints, clutching her scarlet autumn coat to ward off a sudden chill.

She barely makes it to the bus on time and doesn't notice the strange sight she's left behind her.

The tree over Ryuga's head is blooming.

* * *

 **AN: I've been noticing a lot of comments about the same thing: grammatical errors and miss spells. Let me clear things up a little. This story is an experiment. I wanted to see if I could write an entire story from my phone. No word processor, ergo- lots of mistakes. I've tried to catch them, but, obviously, I haven't gotten all of them, so if you** ** _do_** **see any, please tell me** ** _where_** **and** ** _what_** **. It's not a big deal for me to fix it. Just a heads up!**

 **Thanks for the reviews, and happy reading!**

 **Delgodess**


	6. Grin

**No Beta**

* * *

She hears about the tennis match weeks after it happens, pausing at the sound of giggles echoing through the busy locker room. There's a small crowd gathered around a bench, cooing and gawking. Mildly intrigued, Harry drifts over, toweling her damp hair and toeing on a ragged pair of flip-flops she uses for showering purposes. Her height gives her an advantage, so she leans over the dark heads with a quite query.

"What are you looking at?"

One girl sighs dreamily, another huffs, clearly exasperated. Harry is used to this behavior, and so shrugs with an eye roll.

"What?"

"It's only the hottest thing all semester. The Yagami and Ryuga match, but I guess you wouldn't know. You were at a meet that day, I think." pipes up a stuffy junior wearing a sharp, matching jumpsuit and far too much makeup. She angles the tablet sitting on the center bench with manicured fingers, shifting it until the glare of the florescent overhead lights disappear. Harry can see movement now, the phone recording letting out a blunt _whap_ as a racket hits a yellow-green ball with uncanny precision. Harry feels something in her jolt at the flash of color, the old urge to snatch gold out of thin air surprisingly strong. But it's not the snitch; it's just a plain old tennis ball, the poor thing getting the stuffing beat out of it.

" _Ooo_ , look at the way he moves! Isn't he just _gorgeous_?" Exclaims another girl, pale and pigtailed, head thrown back in a sigh.

Harry peers closer and then recoils. It's that _boy_.

She'd forgotten, what with the fencing season being in full swing. She'd had meets to go to, spars to win, and her coach to wrangle. Can you really blame her for not paying better attention?

The brown haired girl to her right levels her with an unimpressed glare.

 _Apparently_ _you_ _could_.

"It happened in August, at the beginning of the semester. She would have been here for _that_."

Harry shrugs and moves away. She knows when she's not wanted. Still… no matter how brief her glance, she'd seen the ferocity of the two competitors, the intimate intent in their exchange, the dangerous clashing of their eyes. Had this quarrel been festering all semester? And how had she not noticed the dull and uninteresting Ryuga's sudden talent for rapid movement?

No matter. It was none of her business.

She feels a bit of the Weasley twins' mischief flit through her mind and struggles to stifle a snicker as she snatches her bag from where it sits in her locker and heads towards the exit. The sound of breathless giggles grates, and she can't help herself.

He parting quip is not all that subtle.

"I really don't know _why_ you bother. The sexual tension is obvious to anyone with _eyes_."

The uproar she leaves behind is _fabulous_.

* * *

The two week break after midterms was going to be a blessed reprieve. One she would've enjoyed wholeheartedly, had she not had a stalker.

Oh, Harry couldn't _prove_ it, but she'd bet her left sock that _somewhere_ , _somehow_ , someone was watching her. It was the telltale prickling on the back for her neck, an extra awareness screaming _CONSTANT_ _VIGILANCE!_ in Mad-Eye Moody's craggy old voice.

Her control over her errant magic was getting better, the use of it like flexing a forgotten muscle, the act like learning to ride a bike again. In time, the outbursts would cease all together, but for now, she would have to keep practicing in the relative safety of her room. Harry had forgotten how much she had taken for granted, how much she'd relied on it for simple things.

But never again.

The witch was careful. She _never_ did anything obvious with her magic.

But…

If the temperature outside was freezing and she had to walk to the bus stop, she warmed the air around herself, careful as it extended from her skin. If her school bag was just a bit too heavy, she lightened it, charming the space within for more books. And if dark things went bump in the night just outside her bedroom window, she warded every wall, every door, and every entry way of her home, determined to keep her family safe.

Sometimes, Harry wished she had been more like Hermione, a virtual sponge for information. She wished she had Ron's eye for strategy, but then, that's why they were called the golden trio. They worked well together, complimenting pieces. She missed them and would have killed for the old days, if only to have their combined brainpower.

Still, all that Auror training wasn't for nothing, and if that cold-blooded part of her devoted to all things green and slithering was whispering for her to take heed, well…she best get to it then.

Yes, she was paranoid, and with good reason. Her stalker had a nasty tendency to appear at the most inopportune moments, moments of vulnerability. Nakedness, tired delirium, wandless practice; he appeared, somewhere at her back, but when she turned, there was nothing.

On the fourth day of her vacation, Harry had finally had enough.

Perched at the kitchen counter eating her scrounged up lunch and leaning hazardly on two legs of her stool, Harry felt it: an icy finger up her spine, curious and gleeful. A vein in her forehead bulged and, with the speed of one trained for high velocity sports, she snatched the topmost apple from the ornate fruit bowl her mother had filled just that morning, and threw the green blur with an accuracy gifted to all those fueled by immense annoyance.

There was an oddly familiar yelp, followed by a thud and in the next moment Harry had Snapes' trademark scowl twisted onto her face, hammering it home with eyes the color of acid. She directed her displeasure at the… _thing_ flipped awkwardly over their beige couch.

"You've got a lot of nerve." She snarled, standing. Inwardly, she flinched when she completed the round of the couch, heart pounding in her chest. It was… the closest thing to describe it…it looked like a _Dementor_. Or rather, what a Dementor might have looked like under its ominous robe. Honestly? The robe was an improvement.

A hoarse chuckle emerged from behind its blue lips and then suddenly it was grinning, long, sharp teeth on full display.

"Ho ho ho! So you can see me, little mistress? _Interesting_." She didn't like how he said that word; like she was merely a toy for his viewing pleasure. So, despite her deeply engrained phobia of all things soul-sucking, the fencer grit her teeth and _hissed_.

"Don't be ridiculous. I've known you were there for weeks. The fuck do you want?" Her hands fisted and the dangling earring warmed against her flesh. It was a good thing her family was busy elsewhere- otherwise, they might have been privy to her nearly blowing a gasket at empty space.

The thing had somehow righted itself, floating slumped mid-air as if it's great, black wings were too heavy for it to carry. It lifted a clawed hand, twisting the apple in its palm this way and that.

"Just checking in on the Kings' new favorite." It chuckled again and _oh_ , how Harry was growing to _hate_ that sound.

"The _hell_ does that mean?" Harry warily watched as it sniffed the apple, humming thoughtfully before taking a tentative bite. Then it seemed to choke, wheezing and coughing as if to get a horrid taste out of its mouth.

She smirked at the display but promptly crinkled her nose in disgust as spittle and apple bits went flying.

"It means, _queenie_ ," It- _he_ , she was beginning to realize- coughed raggedly one more time, before grinning that ghastly grin, "that you're in for quite the ride."

Harry couldn't help it. Despite everything that told her to keep her eyes on apple-lips here, it was just too cliché. She rolled them, scoffing. Her arms came up and folded over her faded sweater, the fabric bunching around her chest. "And who are _you_ , exactly?"

"Hoo! Introductions! Now we're gettin' somewhere!" Then he did this odd little bow, ankles crossed, bobbing in the air like a demented corkscrew.

"Names Ryuk. Shinigami. And _you_ ," Ryuk's grin never faltered, stretching across his ghastly face with twisted relish. Jagged teeth flashed against ashen features, pin-point pupils dilating with alarming intensity. He was grotesque, every crooked stitch, every spiny limb seeming to bunch and writhe, "you're Harry Potter, Death's new Mistress." His eyebrows wiggled, smile turning sly. "And such a _lovely_ thing, too."

Harry grunted in disgust. " _Egh_. Stalker, creep, AND perv."

"Hey!" He protested, though more out of defiance than any actual shame.

"Bet you'd get along well with another creep I know." The witch muttered, turning away.

"Look," she said over her shoulder as she ambled back to her lunch, "if you're not going to tell me anything important, then get out." She flopped onto her stool, suddenly exhausted. Despite his horrid appearance, the jerk just seemed to be hanging around for fun. And while that was not really an encouraging thought, ( _Death Gods don't just hang around, **stupid**_.) Harry had been expecting, well… _more_. The anticipation and anxiety was finally released; now, she could rest, truly _rest_ , for the first time in _weeks_. After she hexed him to oblivion that is.

"Stupi-" She started, turning her torso, but in the space where the hulking creature once hovered, there was nothing. Just an empty living room.

Wide eyed, Harry blinked.

"Not good."


	7. Red

**No Beta**

* * *

A pained moan echoed from the abyss of rumpled blankets, sunlight streaming through an open window to rain agony upon the bed's occupant. A loud thump reverberated from downstairs, the joyous sound of one James Charles Potter vigorously exclaiming his supposed innocence like a dying whale.

' _Liar_.' A bedridden, migraine-tortured red-head grouched, mentally wishing for death's sweet reprieve. The creeping sensation of otherworldly amusement slid like oil through her frazzled thoughts, shooting her up to a seated position with the efficiency of an electric shock. This then prompted an unfortunate exposure to the wretched light of day, thus causing the hissing dark creature known as our heroine to scramble back under the covers, struggling against, irrational, if justified, rage.

A fiery hot poker shot behind her left eye with extreme prejudice, thus ending any thoughts of fratricide.

Harry whimpered.

It was the Saturday before winter break ended and like every morning for the last three days, she woke to the head-searing, energy-draining, murder-inducing pain of a migraine. Medicine didn't work. Or tea. Or chocolate. She guzzled down water like it was going out of style, thinking it was dehydration. She checked her calendar, but her monthly visitor wasn't due to arrive for another two weeks. She'd even dared to try her mother's famed hang-over concoction, an endeavor that not only made her see stars, it also made her a lover of all things porcelain and throne-like. Harry stubbornly resisted all pleas to see a doctor, a feat which lost her the sympathy of most of the household. She compromised with the only person more stubborn than herself, promising her father that if the pain persisted till the end of the week (Sunday), or if it got any worse (HA! That would be a laugh.), she would seek professional help.

Really, Harry just wanted to hit herself with a stick to get things over with.

The tips of her ears burned with resentment, though in all actuality, it was probably just the Hallows reacting to her distress. Gingerly, Harry rose from her dark sanctuary, shuffling ghoul-like to the enticing coolness of the hallway bathroom. After finishing her business and staring blankly at her wild-eyed reflection in the mirror, she ghosted like an unholy phantom back to her room and up to the hideously bright window to yank the drapes closed with a pale, corpse-like hand.

Then she fell, face first, onto her bed.

Of course, her bedroom door chose that moment to crash open with a bang, the silhouetted figure of her worst nightmare framed in the doorway.

Harry moaned pathetically.

"You need to get out." A cruel voice said, the sound warping as the figure moved briskly across the room and ripped the curtains back open.

" _Ghuah_." Harry replied pitifully.

"Stop being so dramatic." Came the crisp rebuttal. "It's one o'clock. Take a pill, put on some sunglasses, and go get me some things from the store."

"I pay _rent_." Came the feeble protest.

"Yes, well, I make the food. And if you want anything remotely interesting to eat, you'll be back by 4:30. Card's on the counter downstairs, list's on the fridge. I'm taking James to Defense class. Do _not_ be late."

And with those loving parting words, Harry's mother swept from the room.

* * *

Half an hour later, Harry was shrugging on a jacket, faux-fur tickling at her face as she slipped wisps of her unruly hair behind her ears and beneath her hood, too irritated to bother re-doing her messy bun. Her boots came on next, followed by a mad scramble within the coat closet to find the grocery bags and a missing right-handed cotton glove. Finally triumphant, Harry patted her pockets to make sure both wallet (with the borrowed credit card safely tucked away) and list were in place before she was gone, the door to her family home swinging shut behind her.

She speed-walked towards the nearest bus stop, squinting behind dark sunglasses up at the sky.

' _The sun is a lie_." She griped mentally, unimpressed at its shabby attempt at warming the planet. The red-head huddled into herself as she waited, trying to blink back pain brought upon by outside stimuli. She wished the kid standing two people down with his mother would stop crying.

Four bus stops later and it was 2:15, giving her roughly an hour and forty-five minutes to shop if she wanted to get back to the bus early enough to get home on time. Her head pounded unrelentingly, her gaze focused downward as she struggled to drown things out. She walked carefully, watching for ice, and nearly sighed in relief when she finally entered the quiet heat of the downtown supermarket. It was semi-busy, and Harry was grateful it was winter vacation so she didn't have to deal with the after-school rush. Grabbing a basket and shoving her folded grocery bags to one side of it, she fished out the list and began stalking down the aisles.

The shopping was a daze, her head clouded with so much pain that, at one point, she thought she saw white on the level of the Cruciatus **.** She was really in no condition to be out in public, but gryffindor stubbornness shouldered her on and slytherin self-preservation reminded her of her mother's wrath. Snatching up a different type of painkiller from the pharmaceutical aisle, the former witch hunched her way to the checkout, mumbling a half-hearted pleasantry to the highschooler manning the fort before falling silent. A hand came up to rub at her forehead, the pain flaring acutely-

He named the price.

-and Harry saw red. _Literally_. There were red numbers floating ominously over the cashier's head. She goggled for a moment, but with the grace of someone used to more unusual things, Harry handed him the money, grabbed her bags, and walked out the door.

What she did _not_ expect, however, were the bobbing red lines whirling over every passerby. So startled was she by the names and numbers flickering in and out of sight like a bad video game, she stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Unfortunately, this also caused a chain reaction which resulted in her on her knees, hands scraped and groceries sprawled on the ground in front of her.

Harry hissed, wincing, but mumbled an apology with a bow of her head.

"It's no problem. Here, let me help." Tenor, slightly husky with a touch of sheepishness that sounded suspiciously flat to her ears. _Oh, no_.

Harry looked up, the pain in her head, which had subsided to a dull throb, flaring for an instant before settling.

It was that _boy_.

And standing awkwardly to his right, hands in pockets, blinking owlishly, was Ryuga.

' _Oh, for the love of-_ '

"Thank you, but you really don't-" She starts, but is cut off.

"It's fine." Light says with a shrug, picking up a bag and moving to help her up. Harry pretends she doesn't see the offered hand, dusting snow from herself and taking the bag from him as casually as she can.

"Are you alright?" He questions and she nods, rifling through her stuff with the pretence of making sure none of it is damaged. She is careful to look at their faces and not above when she finally finishes her inspection.

Ryuga hasn't moved from his spot, still staring like the unhelpful git that he is.

"Thank you." She forces her lips to say, meeting Light's eyes before turning and nodding at the dark-haired man behind him. "Ryuga." She states before making to leave when-

"Potter."

-she shivers. _Oh_ , she hadn't heard her name pronounced with _that_ tone in a while. She swallows nervously.

"Yes?"

Harry blinks as he continues, uncomprehending, and even Light shoots Ryuga a strange look. "I'm sorry?"

"Let's get some coffee." He repeats, matter of fact, like he hadn't just asked her on a date.

"Umm…"

"It's obvious how cold you are by the way you keep shivering. Besides, it's the least we can do since we bumped into you."

Harry glances at Light, askance, but even he is making a faintly odd, befuddled expression, eyebrows pulled up and mouth twisted.

Harry pulls out her phone from a back pant pocket, fiddling with it as a distraction. "I really have to get home-"

"I insist."

And his face did look insistent, intense eyes rapt on her reaction. Harry huffed uneasily, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. The red hovering letters were searing her eyes, her head was killing her, her hands hurt from her fall, but…she couldn't say no. Not without being impolite.

"I…don't really have that much time," A lie, it was barely even three, "but I guess I can come for a bit." Light pinched the bridge of his nose as Ryuga walked away without comment, sighing deeply.

"Sorry about him." The blond gestured, falling into step with her as they moved to catch up. He smiled apologetically. Harry wasn't fooled.

"Don't be. He's always like that."

"You know him?"

"Not really. Just from class."

"Huh."

"Yep."

And with that riveting exchange of information, Harry entered a small café two buildings over from where she'd innocently assumed she'd only be suffering through a last minute shopping trip.


End file.
